


Masterchef CIA

by saiansha



Category: Homeland
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Humor, Pure Crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 18:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13530330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiansha/pseuds/saiansha
Summary: Copenhagen 2008. Peter Quinn is bored. He hates his job. There is no good Indian in the entire city. In a mission that can mean the difference between life and (bored to) death, everyone's favourite CIA black ops assassin takes matter into his own hands. Literally.





	Masterchef CIA

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off one of the many trippy dreams I've had about Peter Quinn. I'm sorry if this fic just makes you roll your eyes - it was way funnier in my head.

Astrid Seelenfreund didn’t mind being alone – over the years, she had grown used to it. And she would rather be alone than come back home after a long day only to be greeted by a surlier than usual, reclusive CIA black ops agent looking like a box of puppies could set him off for the fifth day in a row. From the slight hunch in his shoulders she could make out that today Peter Quinn was going to drop more fuck-bombs than USA had dropped actual bombs in Vietnam. She figured she could double her salary if she started keeping a swear jar, but tonight she was in no mood for his grouchiness.

“What’s bitten you?” She snapped, as she shut the door behind her.

He stopped his restless pacing in the living room but didn’t turn around to look at her. “Nothing,” he said, in his usual deadpan, detached tone.

“Then stop pacing around my apartment like a wound up clockwork toy!” Astrid threw her handbag to the side and headed to the kitchen to make herself a drink. She heard him slowly walking over to her as if half in thought. She didn’t look up as she made herself a Bloody Mary.

“How was your day?” He asked.

She looked up at him then, eyebrows raised. “Why do you ask?”

“Just a question.” He said, again in that same tone, the effect completed with a dead-eyed stare. Peter went around the counter, picked up the bottle of vodka that Astrid had produced and got down to making a drink for himself. “You told me I needed to be politer.”

Astrid rolled her eyes and focused on savouring the drink. As the tensions of work – no world-changing crisis or anything unmanageable, just annoying problems – eased their grip on her mind, she relaxed and turned around to look at Peter. “You look like you got back here quite early.” He had substituted his usual unironed work shirts with a casual tee and his work pants for jeans.

“Yeah, there was nothing much to do today.” He sighed and gulped down his vodka tonic. “I’m bored,” he added as an afterthought.

“Is this what this is all about?” She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been acting grumpier and crasser than usual because you’re bored?” Peter didn’t reply – not that she had expected him to. However, his silence was acknowledgement enough. “Damn, Peter. You didn’t think a desk job would be about life or death situations, did you?”

“No, but I did think it would be more exciting than investigating who is nicking the office stationery or instructing new grunts to not fire their gun every time they see a cockroach.” He put the vodka back in the cabinet and his empty glass in the sink.

“Well, you’ll be leaving this all for good soon, hmm?” Astrid asked casually, but he had cottoned on to her subtle probing.

“Sure.”

“That’s what you told me, at least. That, and you had realised that you can’t step out in one go so you were going to do it gradually.”

“I’m just here because I was sick of seeing Dar’s face and I told him I wanted to go work somewhere I didn’t have to see his face every day. So here I am, in charge of fucking procurement of this fucking embassy.” He exclaimed. “’You’re my guy, Peter’”, he said. ‘I managed to find a good position for you where you certainly won’t have to see my face every day’, he said.”

Astrid lips were quivering. She was about to turn around to hide her laughter when she noticed him shuffling towards the glass coffee table. “Move the fuck away from my furniture, Peter, or I swear I will stab you as many times as the number of shards you shatter this table into.”

Peter stopped midway, still as a statue, then turned around to glare at her. “I’ll be doing you a favour anyway. It’s a fucking ugly table.” He said, in a tone that sounded more petulant than spiteful.

“Oh, and whose fault is that?” She barked. “Who was sulking and scowling and screaming about their job last week and decided to kick the table for giggles?”

“Jesus, I said sorry a thousand times! I even tried paying you for the replacement – which you refused, for the record!”

Astrid came over and sank into the couch, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Go to your room and do your pushups or sit-ups or burpees or whatever else you do to calm down, Peter. I’m really not in the mood to hear you moan about how you’re stuck in an awful job in an awful organisation – which you say you’re planning to leave anyway – after you told your boss that you didn’t want to see his face and told him to go fuck himself.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t tell him to go fuck himself…”

Astrid arranged her face in an expression that screamed “Really, Peter?” in equal parts mirth, sympathy and annoyance.

“I’ll get going.” He eventually said, back into his cold, calm and detached routine.

“Don’t be ridiculous, sit down.” He had the grace to not argue and follow her orders for once. “You really do have to work on your social skills, goddamn it. You’re supposed to blend in, not act like a caveman.” He merely nodded. “So. You’re bored.”

“Yup.”

“You could go to an amusement park and get your adrenaline fix for the week.”

He raised an eyebrow. “BND’s finest, ladies and gentlemen.”

She smacked him playfully on his arm. “Shut up. Do you have any hobbies? You must have some hobbies.”

He seemed to think long and hard before he came up with an answer. “Reading. But I’ve already been reading a lot.”

“Anything else?”

He thought for even longer this time. How hard could it be to recall what you liked doing recreationally, Astrid wondered. Finally, he answered.

“Eating.”

“Eating?”

“Eating.”

“Well you’re certainly great at eating away my patience, I’ll give you that.”

“My one true calling.”

She thought for a moment before asking, “You like Indian, right?”

“There’s no good Indian food in the whole of Copenhagen.”

“Well, I know a couple of good Turkish places around here.”

“So?”

“So… you could go there. Same difference.”

He stared at her hard. His disgust was so strong that he let his feelings cloud his expressions this one rare time. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a reply.”

“I mean, it’s all the same to you Americans. Some spices, some curry powder, some pickled onions on the side and voila!”

“I know the difference, okay?” He snapped.

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

“Well then you must know that Indian is more than twenty different cuisines all bundled up together?”

“I know, thank you!”

“God, Peter, for a guy who’s been trained to survive on the most minimal of resources in the harshest of environments you sure are a picky eater.” It was true. Whenever it was Astrid’s turn to cook dinner he would pick and eat his food in a variety of ways depending on what he thought was wrong about it. He would always finish his plate and never badmouthed anything. But, whenever she pressed him about what he’d like to eat, if he liked what she’d made, or what he wanted from take-out, he would come up with endless critiques and complaints.

“I don’t know, Astrid,” He stood up and waved his hands. “Maybe, just maybe, I’m tired of eating smørrebrød every single day!”

“That’s rich, coming from a guy who eats canned tuna for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a living.” She scoffed.

“I don’t believe this. First, you are accusing me of being too casual about my food and now you’re grilling me for being picky?”

“I’m just saying, you’re used to eating trash, so don’t be picky and don’t go all gastronomical on me.”

“Just because I’m used to eating trash doesn’t mean I like eating it.” Peter said, slowly and deliberately, as if talking to an especially slow student. “Just because I have to adapt while on missions doesn’t mean I am bound to live like a fucking hermit when I’m off-duty.”

“Alright, alright,” Astrid conceded, “Fine. You’re not a tramp voluntarily, you’re a victim of your circumstances, I get it.”

“Thank you!”

“But how do you know for sure that there is absolutely no good Indian anywhere in this city?”

“Because I’ve tried it all, haven’t I! God, do you really work for the BND, Astrid? Your deductive skills are shit.”

“I’m not the one throwing a hissy fit over not finding good food.”

“Fucking Dar!” He carried on, not paying her any heed. “Why can’t I get transferred to India, for fucks sake? Lots to do, no in-your-face extremist Islamist threats. Eat actual Indian food. Marry an Indian woman, maybe.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “You just want to marry an Indian woman because you want one to cook for you.”

“Last time I checked, it wasn’t criminal.”

She tried to look reproachful, but couldn’t stop herself from laughing at the silliness and lightheartedness of their conversation. He managed to crack a smile as well.

“Considering that I don’t do much with my salary, I was planning to blow it at Manish Mehrotra’s restaurant in New York.”

“Who’s that?”

“He runs a restaurant called Indian Accent. It has a three months waiting list, though, and I’m always worried I’ll be in god knows what country by the time the three months run out.”

Astrid looked curious. “How do you know so much?”

“I just do.”

“Pffft, next you’re going to tell me you watch Masterchef.”

He stared at her expressionlessly, not saying anything.

“No.” Astrid shook her head. “No!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No!” She sprang up from the sofa, torn between wanting to laugh and to keep denying the sheer impossibility of one of the world’s most dangerous men watching cooking shows in his downtime. “Tell me you’re lying.” Astrid spluttered, her face reddening.

“I’m lying.”

“You’re so fucking not!” She shoved him playfully and slouched back into the sofa, doubling over. “God, my stomach hurts! Peter Quinn in an apron and oven mitts, watching the oven, gun on the kitchen slab, in case the fire alarm goes off and he needs to shoot it to shut it off. You’re too fucking funny!” She wiped the tears from her eyes.

Apparently he didn’t think anything about this was funny. He was in doubt as to what to do next, lest he make the situation even worse. And when in doubt, it was his thumb rule to glower in silence.

“No, but, seriously, you should apply for the next season. Masterchef US or Masterchef Australia. They even had one in Germany! No other contestant will have better knife skills than you!” She dissolved into another round of laughter.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Aha! Now it’s clear where you learnt your manners from – watching Gordon Ramsey!”

“I shouldn’t have said a fucking thing.”

“You didn’t need to.” She smirked. “Oh, come on, now. Even if you’re such a Cordon Bleu at heart, you can still find some good Indian place to eat at.”

“I told you, there is nothing better than shit here!” He whined.

“Well it’s not as if you can actually cook better than that!” She sniggered. Sure, the dinners he cooked weren’t bad, and were edible, but they weren’t anything delectable either.

He looked at her either as if she’d gone mad or as if she’d said something inspiring. She could see the wheels turning in his head.

“Peter?”

He exhaled. “You have a good night, Astrid.” He picked up his jacket and phone and left the apartment.

“Peter? Peter!” She ran after him but he was already gone. “What the fuck?” She said, and then winced. The more time she spent with him, the more colourful her own language became.

 

* * *

  
To be fucking continued

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry all you lovely people had to read this. I'll just go hide myself in a cupboard now.


End file.
